‘And that’s a gold star for me,’ she murmured under her breath, before sending a smile to the approaching waiter. ‘I believe there’s a reservation in the name of Trent-Paterson.’
‘Certainly, madam.’
He didn’t even need to check the reservation book, but led her across the room to a table set in an alcove and screened from the rest of the room by palms. Knowing Will, it was probably the best table in the house. She wondered if this was one of the places where he normally brought his women.
Not that they were his women, of course. It was just that there was such a parade of them in and out of his life.
You can’t talk.
She bit back a sigh.
The restaurant was upmarket, of course, and eschewed modern minimalist lines that were currently in vogue, celebrating instead a colonial décor popular over a century ago. It reminded her of Raffles in Singapore. Minus the heat and humidity. This wasn’t the kind of establishment that needed to justify itself. She took a seat.
‘Can I get you a drink, madam?’
‘Yes, please. A sparkling mineral water would be lovely.’
He blinked before his face became a smooth mask again. Ah...so he recognised her too, huh? She resisted the urge to tease him. New leaf, remember?
She glanced through the screen of palms at the rest of the room and shook her head. ‘Horrible,’ she murmured. Normally she and Will met in the café at the Tate Modern. Where they could stare out at the vista spread before them rather than at each other.
And where occasionally their shoulders would bump. Accidentally, of course—Will would never purposely touch his best friend’s little sister. Especially not now Peter was dead. But those accidental moments always made her feel less alone.
‘Crazy,’ she murmured. ‘Also you have to stop talking to yourself like this or someone will overhear.’ She thought about that for a moment and then shrugged. ‘So what?’
It wasn’t like a century ago, when they could’ve had her committed for such eccentricity. Besides, she’d been called far less savoury things than crazy by the press...and her father.
She watched the waiter return with both her mineral water and Will, and missed the Tate Modern’s café with its view over a grey city. But today called for more salubrious surroundings. Today was Peter’s birthday.
Maybe that was why she felt so claustrophobic amid all this airy, white-shuttered cane and palm expansiveness.
Will couldn’t see her as well as she could see him, but she tried not to study him too intently anyway, though the temptation lurked at the edges of her consciousness. As usual her heart-rate picked up speed at the sight of those impossibly broad shoulders, long legs and lean hips. William Trent-Paterson was built along lines that made every woman in the room stand to attention, figuratively speaking. A woman had once told her that she ovulated every single time she clapped eyes on Will.
She tried to ignore all thoughts of ovulation, eggs and procreation. Regardless of what Will looked like she knew that, as usual, his lips would press into a thin line when he saw her.
‘Such a shame,’ she murmured, because, actually, she really liked him. Still, she’d love to see him run to fat. Just a little bit. Just one flaw—that was all she asked. Maybe then she’d feel on more of an even footing with him.
You might as well ask for the moon.
‘Sophie,’ he said when he reached her.
As predicted those lips pinched together. So did the skin around his eyes. It was a double shame because he had a nice smile, though she rarely saw it.
‘Hello, Will.’
She rose and they gave each other perfunctory pecks on the cheeks, keeping the width of the table between them. A rush of lime and a darker musky note flooded her senses. She pulled back and planted herself in her chair again and tried to ignore the heavy thud-thud of the pulse in her throat.
It was like this every single time—the stilted distance and the heart thudding.
She suspected it was because there was no other person on the planet who had loved Peter as much as she had...except for Will.
And her father, but that was too difficult.
Since the viciousness of her parents’ separation and subsequent divorce when she was eleven and Peter sixteen—when the only thing her parents were focused on was hurting each other—she and Peter had turned to each other. They’d seemed to realise they had no other family to rely on. She’d done her best to stop him from growing too grave and serious, while he’d done his best to stop her from feeling as if she didn’t measure up. She’d looked up to him so much. Had depended on him.
And now he was gone...
She couldn’t believe the hole it had left in her life.
It made her think that she and Will should hold each other tight on the occasions they did see each other, take comfort in each other. But it was never like that.
Because Will didn’t really like her.
But some strange sense of honour kept them in touch, some respect for Peter they weren’t prepared to surrender.
Would he be relieved if she hadn’t shown up—if she just stopped turning up for their monthly coffee dates and occasional lunches? Would he feel he’d discharged some unspoken duty to Peter and was now off the hook? The thought made her heart ache. She couldn’t stop coming. He was one of her last links to Peter. And Peter was the only person who had truly loved her for who she was.
She couldn’t let that go. She couldn’t let Peter go, which meant she couldn’t let Will go. And she wanted to tell him she was sorry for that, sorry if that made things difficult for him.
But she didn’t. Because it would make him uncomfortable...and she didn’t want to do anything that would make him uncomfortable. She’d like to make him smile if she could.
‘You look glum.’
That slammed her back to the present. ‘Sorry, just feeling a bit wistful for...for what could’ve been.’
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, and she realised he’d thought she was referring to Peter. Make things more cheerful.
She waved to encompass the restaurant. ‘I’ve not been here before.’
He straightened. ‘Do you like it?’
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, because she was always on her best behaviour with Will.
Amazingly he laughed. ‘You hate it.’
‘Well, the fact of the matter is I’m starved. So as long as the food is good, I don’t care about anything else.’
Those lips pressed back into a tight line. ‘Traditionally you barely touch any of your food.’
‘Today I can promise you that I’ll clean my plate.’ New leaf.
He raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘You’re planning on ordering the green salad and nothing else?’
She snapped her menu closed. ‘I’m having the lamb.’
‘Excellent choice, I’ll have the same.’ He handed the waiter his menu, his eyes not leaving hers. ‘How’s your father?’
Here began the ritual questions. She pushed down a sigh. Just once she’d like... She pushed that thought down too. ‘Triumphant that I’ve been forced to toe the line and run all of his foreseeable charity events.’
For the moment. Beneath the table she twisted her watch around and around on her wrist. She needed a way to find a lot of money fast. Really fast. And she had no idea how she was going to do it. Her father paid her a generous allowance for acting as his event planner, but it was nowhere near enough to help Carla in any practical way...to make amends to the other woman. And she wasn’t stupid enough to ask her father for a loan. He’d take too much delight in telling her that she was a carbon copy of her mother and to go to blazes.
Dark eyes surveyed her across the table. ‘That’s nobody’s fault but your own.’
True, but... ‘A more gallant man would’ve refrained from pointing that out.’
‘I don’t feel like being gallant today, Sophie. I feel like smashing something.’
Her ears perked up. Wow, that was out of character. Interesting.
But then he shook himself and asked, ‘How’s Carla?’
Her appetite fled at the mention of Peter’s fiancée. She stared at the screen of palms rather than at him, pain throbbing in the back of her throat. She’d been toying with her bread knife, but she carefully set it back down, afraid that if she didn’t she’d stab herself in the leg. Which was no more than she deserved, but that might get her committed. Besides it wouldn’t help anyone. She couldn’t abscond from responsibility. Not this time.
‘That good, huh?’
Carla was in drug rehab—drug rehab Sophie had to try and find the money for—but Carla had sworn her to secrecy and Sophie owed her that much. At the very least. Self-loathing bloomed in her chest. How could she have let things get so out of hand? How could she have been so blind? How could she have let Carla—and Peter—down so spectacularly?
She pressed her hands together to stop them from shaking. ‘She can’t let the memory of Peter go.’
‘And we can?’
The words burst from him, unexpected, and Sophie flinched, throwing up an arm as if to ward off the words.
Silence pounded between them.
Eventually Will cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry.’
She could feel the weight of his gaze, but she didn’t want to meet it. She adjusted her cutlery instead. ‘It’s a valid point,’ she squeezed out from a tight throat. ‘But it’s only been two years.’ It was too soon for forgetting...for letting go.
From the corner of her eyes she saw him drag a hand back through dark auburn hair. ‘I’m starting to think that us continuing to meet like this isn’t doing anybody any good, and that—’
‘No!’
Her gaze flew to his, snagged and held.
‘Please,’ she whispered. To her absolute horror tears slid down her cheeks and she wanted to close her eyes and will the floor to swallow her whole. She hadn’t let him see her cry, not since the funeral. In the humiliation of the moment she wanted to get up and walk out of this horrible restaurant, but she had to stop what he was trying to do.
‘Please, Will, I’m not ready to give this up.’ The thought of it filled her with panic. ‘Please don’t bring an end to...this. I can’t—’ She swallowed down a sob. ‘I know it’s uncomfortable. And I know I’m a trial.’
She’d been a trial to every person in her life. Except Peter. She’d try harder not to be a trial to Will in the future. ‘But, you see, you loved him. And I loved him. And remembering that, having proof—’ recognition ‘—helps.’
His skin had gone grey and his jaw clenched so hard it made her feel sick.
She mopped at her cheeks. ‘Will you excuse me while I go find the ladies’?’
He nodded.
‘Will you be here when I get back?’
She held her breath until he gave another hard nod. Without another word she fled to the ladies’ room, only giving herself enough time to splash some cold water onto overheated cheeks and to repair her eyeliner. Thank God for waterproof mascara!
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sliding into her seat again. Their meal had arrived while she’d been away, and she spread her linen serviette across her lap and lifted her knife and fork. ‘Today is always a tough day. I’m sorry that you bore the brunt of my dissatisfaction with it.’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t more sensitive.’
He wanted to throttle her. She wasn’t sure how she could tell—the hard set of his shoulders maybe combined with the deep burning in his eyes.
‘How’s Carol Ann?’ she asked.
‘Fully recovered from her surgery. She loved the set of DVDs you sent her. Though from all accounts the rest of the household are being driven insane.’
That made her grin. Carol Ann was Will’s younger sister and the same age as Sophie, but she had Down’s syndrome with all of the associated health issues that entailed. Sophie had only met her a few times, but she sent her birthday and Christmas cards...and gifts on the few occasions she’d been hospitalised. They spoke on the phone. Her last gift had been a DVD box set of musicals. ‘I’m glad they’ve been such a hit. The world needs more The King and I.’
He almost smiled so she counted that as an almost win.
‘How’s your grandfather?’
All signs of humour drained from him and she winced. ‘The grapevine informs me that he’s been making another push to get you to settle down.’
‘Good news travels fast. I supposed you were at Catriona McManus’s thirtieth last weekend.’
Nope. She’d given up wild times and painting the town red. She was avoiding parties, other than the ones her father was forcing her to plan, organise and host on his behalf. It was all a part of her turning over a new leaf. But that didn’t mean she could avoid the rumour mill completely. ‘So it’s true, then?’
‘This time he’s given me an ultimatum.’
A forkful of lamb halted halfway to her mouth. ‘What kind of ultimatum?’
‘Either I marry within the next twelve months and take over the reins of the estate or he’s going to give everything to Harold.’
Harold was Will’s weasel of a cousin. Her mind raced. Will didn’t need the money—he was a squillionaire in his own right. He’d never shown the least interest in inheriting the estate, but... She lowered her cutlery. ‘What about Carol Ann?’
‘If Harold inherits there’ll be no place for Carol Ann at Ashbarrow Castle.’
But...that was Carol Ann’s home! Sophie might not know much about Will’s life beyond what Peter had told her, and the odd snippet Will occasionally let slip, but she knew he took his responsibility for Carol Ann seriously. She knew how much he loved her. And she knew Carol Ann’s entire sense of security was tied to Ashbarrow Castle. She knew because Will had tried moving her to London to live with him and it had been an absolute disaster. Carol Ann had grieved so hard for her home that she’d fallen ill.
Talk about being in a bind. ‘What are you going to do?’
He shook his head, remaining silent.
His earlier out-of-character snark made sudden sense. ‘Maybe he’s bluffing.’
‘Not this time.’
Her stomach clenched. Will’s parents’ marriage had been fraught, ugly...and in the end they’d destroyed each other. All in the glare of the public spotlight. She’d figured that was why he’d sworn never to marry. Ever. She’d never met anyone so against the institution. She rubbed a hand across her chest. No wonder he looked so haunted.
Keep things light, she counselled, because he looked ready to snap and she was one of the burdens weighing him down. She lifted a bite of food to her lips, chewed and swallowed. And then she sent him a grin that made him blink. ‘I’d marry you for a million pounds, Will.’
He stared at her for a long moment. ‘And what would you do with a million pounds?’
She could see in his eyes what he thought she’d do—fritter it away on clothes and parties. She gave up being polite and leaned her elbows on the table. ‘Create a new life for myself. A million pounds would let me turn everything around.’ It would pay for Carla’s treatment. It would let her get the stables up and running so that when Carla was better she’d have a job to come out to.
He leaned towards her, his eyes oddly intent. ‘Specifics, please.’
* * *
It was the first time in two years that Will had seen anything approaching Sophie’s old spark fire through her.
Every time he saw her she’d lost more weight, had grown paler, had become...less.
He’d taken one look at her today and had wanted to punch something.
But now...
She stared at him with those perfect blue eyes—the only part of her
that hadn’t faded—and blinked. ‘Specifics?’
‘How would you specifically turn your life around with this hypothetical million pounds?’
Her chin wavered between jutting up and angling down. He found himself holding his breath. Would she explain what she meant...or would she wave it all away with a laugh and descend into inanity as usual?
Her chin remained firmly at a midpoint, and he didn’t know what that meant. Mind you, he’d never been brilliant at deciphering what went on in that puzzling head of hers. All he knew was that when Peter had died, he seemed to have taken a part of Sophie with him.
And it now seemed that she was incapable of reclaiming it. Or refused to reclaim it. He wasn’t sure which.
He knew only what he’d promised Peter—that he’d keep an eye on Sophie—but today he’d had to face the fact that his and Sophie’s lunch and coffee dates were doing her more harm than good.
A hand reached inside his chest and squeezed. He’d made her cry. Well done! He’d wanted to ease her pain, not add to it. But then, just for a moment, there’d been that spark. As if she’d had a vision of something better.
He wanted to see that spark again. He wanted to help her reclaim the part of herself she’d lost. He wanted to do it for Peter, because of the promise he’d made. But he wanted to do it for Sophie’s sake too.
She speared a bean on the end of her fork—delicately because, whatever else you wanted to say about Sophie, she had an innate grace—and ate it. She’d eaten at least half of her meal so far. That in itself was cause for celebration.
‘You really want to know?’
‘I really want to know.’ He knew he must be coming across as intense, but he couldn’t help it.
‘Well... The first thing I’d do is get out of the city.’
Why? Because of her father? ‘I thought you loved London.’
‘I do, but it’s not exactly been good for me, has it? For the last two years I’ve thrown myself into the party scene trying to forget. It hasn’t worked. All I’ve done is drunk too much champagne, had too many indiscreet photos snapped by the press and stumbled so late into my job so many times that they had no choice but to let me go.’
English Lord on Her Doorstep Page 18
